24
LORD IMAS
The ledger is a battlefield, and I am slaughtering the opposition.
I sit at a scarred wooden desk in the back room of the Gilded Rudder, a merchant guildhouse overlooking the harbor of Ter. The air smells of salt, dry parchment, and the rich, roasted aroma of Kaffa beans brewing in the corner.
"You see the error here," I say, tapping a column of figures with an ink-stained finger. "The shipping manifest accounts for thirty crates of Nabella spice, but the tariff calculation is based on the weight of raw ore. If you sign this, you will be overpaying the port authority by four hundred Daler."
The Guildmaster, a portly K'sheng elf with gold rings in his ears, stares at the page. His eyes widen.
"By the Tradesman’s hammer," he mutters, mopping his brow. "I looked at this three times. How did you spot that?"
"Patterns," I say simply. "Numbers have a rhythm. Disruption creates discrepancies."
I lean back in the chair. It is a cheap, creaking thing, nothing like the high-backed thrones of Lliandor. My tunic is simple linen, dyed a deep blue, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearmsthat are growing stronger from hauling crates and working the docks.
I am not Lord Imas here. I am just Imas. A refugee with a sharp mind and a terrifying capacity for logistics.
Three months ago, I commanded armies of shadows. Today, I command ink.
And I prefer the ink.
"You have saved me a fortune," the Guildmaster says, looking at me with a reverence that has ;ott;e to do with fear. "Again. You could run this guild, Imas."
"I have no desire to run anything," I reply, standing up. "I only desire my wage."
He hands me a heavy pouch of coins. It is honest money. It has no blood on it. I take it, feeling the weight settle in my palm—a grounding, physical reality.
"I will not be in tomorrow," I tell him.
"Taking a rest day?"
"I have... business."
I leave the guildhouse, stepping out into the late afternoon sun. The heat of Ter is a physical embrace, humid and heavy, pressing against my skin. It is vibrant. The streets are a chaotic river of life—humans, orcs, elves, even a towering Minotaur sailor navigating the crowd—all shouting, laughing, living.
For five centuries, this noise would have shattered me. It would have been a torture to endure while The Serpent screamed in my skull.
Now, it is just music.
I walk through the market, my hand resting on the hilt of the simple steel dagger at my belt. I am no longer a predator apex, untouchable and wrapped in dread. I am one who can be mugged. Someone who can bleed.
The vulnerability is constant, a low-level hum of anxiety at the nape of my neck. But it is my own anxiety. It belongs to me.
I reach the jeweler’s stall near the fountain. The artisan, an old human woman with clever eyes, looks up as I approach.
"Is it ready?" I ask.
She nods, reaching under the counter. She pulls out a small velvet box.
I open it.
Inside sits a ring. It is not heavy obsidian. It is not carved with symbols of pain or binding. It is silver, beaten thin and delicate, set with a single, small chip of Zanthenite that glows with a soft, steady blue light.
"It is simple," the woman says apologetically.
"It is perfect," I whisper.
